


Proving A Point

by Pic_Akai



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Intercrural Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:32:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pic_Akai/pseuds/Pic_Akai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft directs Lestrade through sex with Sherlock, just to prove that Sherlock will enjoy sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proving A Point

"What?"

Lestrade stares at him for a good thirty seconds, waiting for either the punchline, or the repetition which will confirm he's misheard.

Neither comes, so he tries again. "Did you just say what I think you said?"

Mycroft keeps that same calm, irritating-as-shit look on his face. "Yes, Gregory, I did."

"You think I should have sex with Sherlock - your _brother_ \- just to prove that he likes it?"

Mycroft smiles a little. "I have faith in your ability to achieve this goal."

Lestrade isn't stupid enough to be sidetracked by flattery, though he knows Mycroft isn't only saying it to deflect him from the point. Mycroft is free with his praise when he feels it's warranted. "Thank you, _darling_ , but isn't this idea a little too weird just to prove your brother wrong?" He doesn't let Mycroft answer. "Of course it's not, not for you, you're a Holmes. Nothing is too weird."

"We do have our limits," Mycroft returns, and Lestrade wonders for a moment what those might be, but decides it's not the time.

"Usually people attempt to keep their siblings away from their partners in the bedroom, not - push them together."

"Are you not attracted to my brother, Gregory?"

Lestrade goggles at him. "That really isn't the point!"

"A sexual encounter will be much more pleasurable if there is mutual desire on both sides. In this case, I believe there will be."

"So, what, you'll go out for an hour, Sherlock and I will just go into the bedroom and fuck, and then if he comes, you'll take the semen as evidence that you're right and he does have a sex drive, and that's that?"

Mycroft considers this. "More or less. Though I wasn't planning to leave. Would you prefer I did?"

"I'd prefer it didn't happen at all!"

"Really?"

There are many things Lestrade loves about being Mycroft Holmes's partner. The fact that Mycroft can practically read his mind is not always one of them.

Lestrade sighs in frustration. "I know it's…plebeian, but normal people like me don't just do things like this and then have it go back to normal afterwards. Our brains don't work that way."

"You," Mycroft says, getting up from his seat at the table and coming to stand behind Lestrade's chair, arms coming around him, "are not normal." He kisses Lestrade just below his ear, the place he knows makes Lestrade shiver a little every time.

"That's not supposed to be a compliment," Lestrade says gruffly, and tips his head to the left slightly in a blatant invitation for Mycroft to do it again.

"And yet," says Mycroft, kissing him again.

And so three weeks later, this is how Lestrade finds himself three bottles of Budweiser down when Sherlock arrives at his flat. They've chosen here because he hardly spends any time here these days. It's also the closest thing to neutral territory that the Holmes brothers have got, seeing as they still argue over their claim to Lestrade (without saying much at all, when they think he can't hear them): Sherlock met him first and works with him regularly, Mycroft is dating him. Lestrade finds their rivalry here ever-so-slightly adorable, and will never ever tell them this.

The door's open, and Sherlock enters looking for all the world like Lestrade has hauled him into the Yard to complete paperwork. Lestrade has faith in his own abilities in bed, but he can see this might be a long night. And not in the good way.

"Sherlock," Mycroft greets his brother as he stands about two steps into the flat, peering around like this isn't at all awkward for him. Lestrade can't work out if that's actually true, or if Sherlock just feels better pretending it's all tedious, something he's doing only to prove a point.

"Alcohol can cause erectile dysfunction, Lestrade," is Sherlock's greeting. "Is this your way of getting out of the plan without hurting anyone's feelings?" The sneer he puts on the word 'feelings' is really something to look at.

"I've had three bottles, you prick," Lestrade says, feeling more comfortable already, "and if I didn't want to do this I'd say so. That doesn't mean I can walk into it sober."

"Charmed, I'm sure," says Sherlock, walking down the hallway. "Are you coming?" he calls back.

"I think the experiment has begun," Mycroft says, and Lestrade rolls his eyes as they both get up to follow Sherlock.

They find him in the bedroom, standing at the foot of the bed and looking impatient. Lestrade hesitates in the doorway, unsure exactly of how to proceed.

"Relax, Gregory," Mycroft tells him, embracing him from behind for a moment. "I'll direct you."

"Ordering others about and not getting your hands dirty? If that's what you enjoy in the bedroom it must be terribly difficult for you to concentrate at work."

"I'm always at work and I am always able to concentrate," Mycroft replies smoothly, pushing gently at the small of Lestrade's back so he moves forwards. "Kiss him, Gregory. Gently."

Sherlock arches an eyebrow at Lestrade, who takes this for the challenge that it is. He's beginning to get interested now, ridiculous though this situation is; he wants to make Sherlock enjoy himself, admit he was wrong, and he wants to show off to Mycroft because being praised by him always gives Lestrade a little thrill. He tells himself it shouldn't because he doesn't need Mycroft's admiration, but whether he needs it or not, he still loves it.

Lestrade takes another step until he's in Sherlock's personal space, then reaches up to cup the back of his head, pulling it down towards him. Their lips meet and Lestrade presses, softly, taking a number of small kisses one after the other. Sherlock doesn't move.

Lestrade pulls back. "You need to respond for this to work, you know," he says.

"I'm not _interested_ ," Sherlock says. "That's the point. This doesn't intrigue me in the slightest. It's boring."

"You're interested enough to be here," Lestrade points out.

"I am here to prove to my brother that sex is irrelevant to me. So far I think I'm proving it extremely well."

Lestrade throws up his hands. "It's irrelevant for anyone if they just totally switch off from it. You have to be paying attention, that's how it works. If you pay attention and then don't get off, fine, point proven, but -"

"Oftentimes, people who are raped 'get off', from the friction. Does that prove they're enjoying it?"

Lestrade pulls a face. "No. Obviously not. That's not their fault."

"Exactly," Sherlock smiles, irritatingly triumphant. "So even if I 'get off' from the friction, it doesn't mean sex holds anything for me. And if you can't even get me off…"

"I believe Sherlock is asking for us to up the ante," Mycroft puts in as Lestrade breathes out very slowly, deep in his throat, in the way he reserves for dealing with Sherlock. "Why don't you move to the bed?"

"Why don't you move to Antigua?" Sherlock offers, which everyone ignores because the sniping is practically on autopilot. Even as he speaks he's rounding the bed, then climbing onto it. Lestrade does so too from the other side, kneeling awkwardly in the middle. He hears Mycroft behind him settle into the wicker chair.

"Make him more comfortable, Gregory. You can start by removing that jacket."

Sherlock starts to shrug it off himself, but Lestrade stops him, grabbing at it and looking Sherlock in the eyes. "He told me to remove it, and that's what I'll do."

"Enjoy being his lapdog, do-" Lestrade cuts him off with a kiss, this time pressing a little more firmly. He swipes his tongue across Sherlock's lower lip once, then again. His hands are resting lightly on Sherlock's waist, and slowly he moves them upwards, dragging against the expensive cotton of Sherlock's shirt, until he reaches his armpits. Then, still kissing Sherlock, he slides the jacket off slowly, putting even pressure on Sherlock's arms as he does. When it's off he brings his left hand immediately back to the man's waist and his right moves up again to the back of Sherlock's head.

"Very good," Mycroft puts in at this point, and Lestrade fights a smile. "Now, you may open him up."

He knows Mycroft only means his mouth, nothing more just yet, but that in itself is enough to make him breathe a little heavier. He pulls back for a second before he goes for it, regards Sherlock's lips, now damp and, he fancies, a little redder than before. When he flicks his eyes up Sherlock looks bored, so he decides it's the right time to do something about that.

He coaxes Sherlock's mouth open gently, millimetre by millimetre. Sherlock knows what he's doing, obviously, but he isn't making it easy. When it's open enough, he pulls back to come straight in again, closing his mouth and bringing Sherlock's lips together at the same time. Sherlock doesn't seem that into it, but at least now he's putting a little effort into moving with Lestrade. Lestrade licks into Sherlock's mouth, but Sherlock pulls his tongue back almost immediately, so he guesses that's not going to work, and concentrates instead on the lips. He pulls Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, sucks on it then lets it go again carefully, dragging just across his teeth. He hears what he thinks might be the slightest hitch of breath, so he does it again.

"Lovely," Mycroft says. "Gregory, I believe he's beginning to engage. Remove his shirt - and yours, please."

Lestrade doesn't want to stop kissing Sherlock, so he doesn't as he removes both their shirts, Sherlock's a lot slower than his own. When they're both shirtless he puts his arms around the other man, both hands on his shoulder blades, and pulls them closer. Sherlock is shaped very differently from his brother and that's - a very weird thought, but then this is a very weird situation.

Lestrade shifts on his knees, starting to feel cramped. "I can see you're ready to move, Gregory," Mycroft says the moment he's done this, unsurprisingly. "Lie down, and bring him with you. I know how you like to be blanketed by another warm body."

Lestrade shuffles backwards, arranging them on the bed. He doesn't want to let go of Sherlock while he does this but it's probably safer if he does, so reluctantly he pulls away, chucking a pillow out of the way and then lying down. As he reaches up to pull Sherlock down on top of him, he notes that the man looks just a bit flustered. He smiles when their lips touch again and breathes in sharply when that weight settles down onto him. Mycroft is right; he loves this.

They kiss for several minutes, Lestrade in no hurry to move this along and Mycroft apparently not either. "You may explore further, Gregory," Mycroft says at one point, so Lestrade does, letting his tongue and lips trail across Sherlock's face and to his neck. It's a little uncomfortable with the way they're lying, but Sherlock obligingly tilts his head up and shifts, and Lestrade finds a good spot on his neck which seems to make him lie entirely still, and he doesn't think it's because he's uninterested. He focuses here for a while, sucking and licking alternately, and runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair as he does so. It's longer than Mycroft's and it feels different.

"Now," Mycroft says, and Lestrade starts - which in turn causes Sherlock to do so - because he hadn't heard him get up and move closer. He's kneeling right next to the bed now. "You need to turn him over, very carefully, and then undress him entirely. You're very good at being sensual, Gregory, so that's what I want you to do. Alight his nerves."

"You make me sound like a Van de Graaff generator," Sherlock complains, turning his head so he can glare at Mycroft. "I'm not one."

"I am only too aware of that fact, Sherlock," Mycroft returns, "but nevertheless, I am confident in Gregory's ability to charge you."

Lestrade rolls his eyes at the way sex talk has turned into a scientific debate, and then, carefully, rolls Sherlock, holding them together as he does so. Sherlock doesn't seem inclined to help but he's okay with that; he can do a lot with a pliable body.

Once he has Sherlock on his back, it’s easier to get at his neck, so he concentrates on that for a little while. He's kneeling just over Sherlock, and when he registers the feeling of Sherlock's hand clenching - just slightly - at his side, he grins.

He is rolling his hips down already as Mycroft says, "Grind against him." The added sensation of Mycroft's voice, the way he holds on the first word just enough so it drags, ensures that when his clothed erection meets Sherlock's groin it's very, very pleasurable.

Sherlock huffs out a breath. Lestrade can feel there's hardness there, under his suit trousers - not as much as he imagines there will be, later, but enough that he knows Sherlock's into this. And since up till now it's basically just been kissing, Sherlock can't blame this on any natural bodily response to friction.

If it were just him and Sherlock here, he'd tease him now about being wrong, but as Mycroft's here all it would do is start an argument and ensure Sherlock's just determined again to prove he's right, so Lestrade keeps quiet. He moves back to Sherlock's mouth, places wet kisses on his lips and undulates his hips several times against Sherlock's.

Being encased in denim is starting to get quite uncomfortable, so soon he pulls back - after a couple of unsuccessful attempts - and kneels up, looking down at Sherlock as he unbuckles his belt. Lestrade looks at Mycroft, who's still beside the bed, and looking directly at him.

Lestrade grins again and, without thinking about it, puts on a bit of a show for the brothers. He slides the jeans down his hips slowly, leaving them at his knees, then drags his fingers back up to catch in the waistband of his boxers. But now that he's free, he can't resist cupping himself first. When Mycroft's tongue slides out to lick his lips, Lestrade grinds against the heel of his hand.

"I didn't realise there was to be a performance." Sherlock's voice interrupts the heat between Lestrade and Mycroft, which is not at all an uncommon occurrence.

"Sorry, you feeling neglected down there?" Lestrade snipes back, then drops suddenly down over him again, bringing their mouths together in several open-mouthed kisses before Sherlock has time to reply. Distraction is very much the key, here. When Sherlock's suitably subdued, for the time being, Lestrade twists and kicks awkwardly out of his jeans and his underwear. It's not exactly the refined show from earlier, but it does the job, because then he's naked, and he's got a half-naked Sherlock underneath him, and that will bloody well do anyone with a libido.

He brackets Sherlock's thighs with his knees, rolls himself against Sherlock again. This time Sherlock's interest is unmistakable, and Lestrade _knows_ that was a stutter of his hips, held back only by sheer force of will.

"Come on, Gregory. I want you to engage him, get him to the same point you're at. Turn him on."

Lestrade takes a deep breath, then focuses on Sherlock's trousers. There's a small stain on the front where he's pressed against them and he wonders whether he can fuck Sherlock thoroughly enough that he doesn't complain about this later. Lestrade undoes the button and the zip, allowing his hands to just brush against Sherlock's erection as he does so. He pulls the trousers off slowly, running his fingertips down Sherlock's legs as he goes and getting inexplicably turned on by the fact that this isn't Mycroft, despite the fact that Mycroft is right there next to them.

When the trousers are off, he looks up. It's a sight to be drunk in, Sherlock sprawled on his back and flushed, now, eyes tightly closed like he can pretend to himself he's not enjoying anything, his hands curled into telltale fists. When he's sure he's got the image imprinted in his mind, Lestrade kisses his way back up Sherlock's legs, butterfly kisses on one side, then the other, just enough contact to wake up the nerve endings.

Then he reaches Sherlock's groin, and, "Mouth his cock, Gregory. Don't undress him just yet. Show him what you're going to do with him if he's good enough."

Lestrade pauses to lock eyes with his partner, just to telegraph his appreciation for that command, but then Sherlock opens his mouth. "If you're intending to turn me on," he says, "you'll have to shut up, Mycroft. I can't concentrate on this if you keep reminding me you're there."

"Don't pretend you're incapable of blocking out any stimulus you want to, Sherlock," Mycroft says, sounding only mildly irritated - as is Lestrade, because this complaint has interrupted the vibe - but then he adds, "but very well." He stands, and then Lestrade is staring at him as he gets on the bed, wondering where the hell this is going.

Lestrade isn't sure if he's disappointed or relieved when all Mycroft does is lie down, space still between him and Sherlock, and relaxes like he's going to be watching a good film. Lestrade supposes he sort of is. "If I can't direct you like that, I'll just have to whisper my orders." He leans across to where Lestrade is propped up on his elbows above Sherlock's crotch and whispers, "Mouth my brother's cock."

Lestrade shuts his eyes in a desperate bid for control and follows the order. He lets his mouth trace the outline of Sherlock's erection, getting the cotton damp. When he gets to the head he surrounds it with his lips, then sucks as much as he can. Sherlock gasps, then, enough that Lestrade is absolutely sure it is a gasp.

He does it again, and then he just wants the barrier out of the way. He looks up at Mycroft and feels pathetically grateful to his partner when he sees that Mycroft is holding a condom between two fingers, extending it like an invitation to smoke a cigarette. Lestrade honestly could not care less about nicotine right now.

He pulls Sherlock's briefs down, quickly this time, ready to move on. Mycroft has opened the condom for him and he rolls it down onto Sherlock's cock, taking the time to ensure it's done properly because he's not going to waste time doing it again.

"Calm down, Gregory," Mycroft whispers to him. "We've got hours yet and you're doing so well. You need to make him beg for this. Now, I want you to position yourself over him again - that's it, good - and take your cocks together in your hand." Mycroft stops talking for a moment as Lestrade does this, probably because he knows that Lestrade cannot focus on anything else right now other than the heat and pressure underneath his fingers, and the way Sherlock is tensing below him.

"Good," says Mycroft. "Now rub yourselves together. Give him a little of that friction he's been scorning." Lestrade tugs at their cocks together, mindful not to do too much at this stage but still thinking about what's to come, even as he revels in this; Sherlock's cock in his hand, his own leaking precome, and Mycroft's voice in his ear.

"Next," Mycroft instructs him, "you're going to take his cock into your mouth."

Lestrade breathes hotly into Sherlock's mouth for a few moments before he feels able to move. He kisses his way down Sherlock's chest, then waits when his mouth is above Sherlock's cock.

Mycroft sounds pleased when he speaks. "Take just the tip in, and suck it. Just the head, that's it. Run your tongue around, then a little suction." Lestrade follows his commands. "Now, you're going to swallow him down, but take your time. He doesn't know how good you are at this, but we both know you're excellent. Show him."

Lestrade loves the feeling of a hard, hot cock in his mouth. He loves the pressure and the warmth, the full feeling and the stretch of his lips. He sucks at Sherlock's, taking his time as Mycroft has said, until he gets to the point where he has as much of Sherlock in his mouth as he can manage, and he feels blissful.

"Well done," Mycroft tells him, and Lestrade misses for a second the feeling of hands on his head, gentle pressure holding him down, but they'd agreed beforehand that Mycroft wouldn't get physically involved in this.

He pulls back, slowly. His hands have been resting on Sherlock's hipbones, his thumbs rubbing against the skin, but now he reaches out for Sherlock's left hand, and finds it grasped in the sheet. He tugs at Sherlock's hand, pulling it to his head, hoping Sherlock will get the idea. Then he goes back to the cock before him, mouthing up and down before taking it all in again, retreating until he has just the head, tonguing the glans. Sherlock doesn't rest his hand, but he does tug lightly at the strands of Lestrade's hair, almost uncoordinated. The blowjob is getting to him.

Mycroft lets Lestrade enjoy himself for a while before he speaks again, still low into his ear. "Now you're going to have to finger him." A tube is pushed into his hand and he almost drops it, fingers sweaty and brain not great at controlling them right now. Lestrade moves up Sherlock's body and kisses him again, needing to relax a bit before he does this. Sherlock responds eagerly this time, breathing into Lestrade's mouth and sucking at the tip of his tongue for a moment or two.

Lestrade slicks his fingers with the lube and then reaches down, waiting for instructions. "Circle his hole for the moment, very lightly. Don't put any real pressure there - you're teasing him. Rub against his perineum. You can press down there. Kiss his neck, again. Good." Lestrade wants to push in and knows Mycroft is teasing him just as much as he's - they're - teasing Sherlock. His cock is hard against Sherlock's hip and he presses forward for a second thinking about the fact that Mycroft is helping him to get his little brother off.

"Now you can enter him. Just a little bit of pressure, let your finger slide in slowly…good. Bring it out again, and you're going to fuck him gently, just with that one finger. Oh, he likes this."

Sherlock's arse is clenching around Lestrade's finger, but he isn't complaining. Lestrade fucks him very slowly with his index finger, waiting for the moment when Mycroft allows him to move on.

"Now you can add the second. Keep kissing him, distract him from the stretch." When Lestrade gets two fingers in, it's glorious. Sherlock's tight, naturally, and the lube is just enough so that it's possible for Lestrade to move his fingers, but he knows Sherlock will still feel a burn, into tomorrow. Sherlock will remember him when he sits down. Lestrade grins, then nips lightly at Sherlock's jaw.

He has to use more lube before he's able to add the third finger. Sherlock hasn't done this before - though he had, he'd informed Mycroft, used a dildo many years ago and found it wanting - and Lestrade knows he needs to relax, so he waits a while before he goes for it, fucking Sherlock gently with the two fingers, scissoring them open and curling them in against the wall of Sherlock's rectum.

When he does start to push the third finger in, he uses his free hand to grasp Sherlock's cock in a loose fist, jerking him lightly to provide a distraction. Sherlock twists his hips at that, like he doesn't know whether to push up into Lestrade's hand or down onto his fingers, so he just goes sideways instead.

"You've got three fingers inside my brother," Mycroft informs Lestrade in a voice which is unbelievably steady. "You need to stretch him out well, now, so you'll be able to press inside him and fuck him without any bother. Is he nice and snug around your fingers? That'll feel even better around your cock."

"Lestrade," Sherlock says suddenly, surprising them out of the moment they were having.

"Yeah?" Lestrade says, his voice rough. He keeps his fingers moving as he does, not wanting to give this up. His own cock is rock hard and he's fighting the need to just rub against Sherlock now and get himself off. Sherlock's, too, is certainly not unaffected by the situation. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I want…" Sherlock breaks off, taking a breath. "I want you to…move on."

"What's that?" Lestrade says, feeling both victorious and insanely turned on. "You want me to fuck you?"

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock grinds out, like it's being ripped from him, and Lestrade rewards him by taking his cock into his mouth again for a few moments and sucking, hard. Sherlock moans. It sounds wonderful.

"All right then," Mycroft says, and this time he doesn't bother to whisper. Lestrade wonders if Sherlock's going to complain again, but it seems beyond him at the moment. "Take your fingers out of him, Lestrade. Now he's empty, but you're going to fill him right up again." Mycroft hands him another condom and Lestrade has to concentrate very hard to put it on correctly. He's about to fuck Mycroft's brother, the incorrigible, irritatingly handsome Sherlock Holmes, and Mycroft's there with him, urging him on.

Lestrade gets himself into a comfortable position. He considers trying to get Sherlock onto his hands and knees, but it doesn't look like he'd be able to hold himself up at this point, so he decides to go for it like this. He pulls Sherlock's legs around his thighs, hoping that later Sherlock will recognise the advantages of using them to pull Lestrade closer.

"Take your cock," Mycroft says. He's watching what Lestrade's doing closely. "A little more lube, slick yourself up - good. Don't get too carried away there, Gregory." Easy for him to say, Lestrade thinks, but loosens his grip. "Now I just want you to press your cock against his hole for the moment. That's it. A little bit of pressure, just enough so he knows you're there."

Sherlock moans at this point, more frustration than arousal. He also tries to press his hips down towards Lestrade. "No," Mycroft says, "Hold him down. You're controlling this." He really, really isn't, but Lestrade dutifully puts a hand on Sherlock's hipbone and holds him still. He senses he might need both hands for this later, but for the moment his other hand's engaged in guiding his cock at Sherlock's arse, which he can see tightening in front of him.

"Press in," Mycroft orders. "Just the head, at first. It'll hurt him a little, of course, so we'll just get him used to the feeling. And you, to the feeling of being surrounded by that smooth heat." It's like Mycroft's there with him, which is another level of odd when he thinks about it, except it doesn't turn him off like he thinks it probably should. Lestrade presses the head of his cock in, and kisses Sherlock wetly as he does so, biting at his lip in a small distraction.

When he's in he can't think of anything but pressing further, but Mycroft stops him. "Hold there," he says, his tone that only of command. "I know you need this, Gregory, I know you're desperate to fuck him, but you've got to wait." Lestrade isn't sure if he's waiting for Sherlock to adjust or for Lestrade to go insane, and he doesn't dare to ask.

Finally, finally, "All right. You may move. Very slowly…slide forwards. A little push, that's it. Can you feel him welcoming you in? He's tight, isn't he? Well, he would be. You're the first person to have breeched him, Gregory, and you're doing so well. He's desperate for you too."

Lestrade pants with the effort of not coming there and then. He has both the best and worst boyfriend in the world. Eventually, guided by Mycroft, his cock is surrounded entirely by this hot, tight body. He opens his eyes when he realises he's squeezed them shut, and sees Sherlock below him, his mouth open and his eyes closed too. He licks at Sherlock's lips, tasting the sweat which has collected above them, and the man's eyes open slowly. "All right?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock nods dazedly. "How do you feel?" Lestrade asks, keeping his cock still, waiting for Mycroft to tell him he can pull back.

"Full," Sherlock says thickly. He cranes his head up, then, so Lestrade drops his own to meet him, kisses him a few times before he trails his lips down to that spot on his neck again, which by now is red and looking used.

"When you're ready," Mycroft says, "pull out. Not entirely but just to the edge, then fill him again. Still slowly." Lestrade does this, cursing the agreement that Mycroft would be in control, because this is torture. All he wants to do is bury himself in the heat and thrust, over and over until he can't think of anything else.

"You're beautiful when you're desperate," Mycroft tells him. "Now, then. I think you're ready. Fuck him."

Lestrade arranges himself so this will be as enjoyable for them both as possible; he slides his knees under Sherlock's thighs, wrapping Sherlock's feet around his back. Sherlock gets the idea, thankfully, and tenses his legs together. Lestrade puts a hand either side of his shoulders, kisses him once, then pulls out and pushes back in sharply.

Both of them groan at the sensation. He's started and he has no intention of stopping, so he does it again. The feeling of Sherlock's walls dragging against his cock, even through the layer of latex, is as amazing as it ever is with Mycroft. Lestrade's covered now in a sheen of sweat, more collecting behind his knees, around his groin and in his chest hair. "Press him down into the bed." Lestrade knows Mycroft's seen his need to share that, one of the things he enjoys and can't explain why, and he presses Sherlock down for a moment, lying against him and feeling their bodies hot and damp against one another.

He can't stay like that for too long because his cock is still throbbing inside Sherlock, so he raises himself again and continues to fuck the man, driving into him with steady thrusts. Sherlock has started a low whine and he looks absolutely wrecked. Lestrade closes his eyes against it so he doesn't lose it before Mycroft's ready to let him.

"Gregory, I know I shouldn't admit this, but I am indecently aroused by the sight of you fucking my brother. He's so needy, in so many ways, and you're so good at fulfilling those needs." All that Lestrade can taste, smell, see, hear, feel is arousal. If the Queen herself walked in right now needing Mycroft's help, he wouldn't be able to stop.

"Need to come," he breathes, then kisses his way up Sherlock's neck to behind his ear, because even as over-stimulated as he is he can't help it. Sherlock's writhing beneath him, his hands now gripping Lestrade's sides, thumbs occasionally sliding roughly over his nipples.

"Get him off first," Mycroft instructs. "Use your hand - yes, that's it. Make him tense around you, then you can come. It'll feel so much better like that. Good, oh, he won't last long -" and Sherlock doesn't; a few pulls at his cock and he's arching off the bed, his mouth and eyes both open wide. The only noise he makes is a tiny hitch of breath right at the end, and Lestrade suspects he was holding it. The tension around his cock makes it difficult to focus, but he wants to see this, Sherlock coming as he's inside him, before he finishes himself.

"Well done, little brother," Mycroft says, for the first time referring to Sherlock, who is by now a sated, limp body underneath Lestrade. "Now, Gregory, you may come. Sadly, he won't be feeling you ejaculate inside him, but you can imagine what that would feel like, can't you? Spilling into that tight heat…"

Lestrade is gone. He manages to hold himself up for the several long moments as he pulses, Sherlock tightening around him again as he spills into the condom, and then he can't hold his own weight any longer. He lowers himself onto Sherlock, breathing hard. Sherlock turns his head and kisses him and Lestrade can barely respond.

"I hope you don't mind," Mycroft is speaking again, and it takes Lestrade a few seconds to actually register this and then to decode the sound, mixed with the white noise in his ears from that orgasm, "but I'd quite like to use you, Gregory."

Lestrade complies as much as he can as Mycroft pulls him away from Sherlock - just barely, his arm is still thrown across his chest - and positions him on his side, facing the man who has just been proven very much wrong in his opinions about sex. He knows what Mycroft wants so it comes as no surprise when there's a body pressed to his back, still fully clothed except for the erection allowed out as Mycroft has just undone his trousers and slid his underwear down below it.

He doesn't react much when he feels the cold lube get smeared hastily on his skin; he's too shagged out. When the cock slides through his legs, though, he does his best to tighten up his thigh muscles, allow Mycroft a firm passage to fuck.

"I would fuck you properly," Mycroft says, back to a whisper now, "because sliding into your arse is one of my favourite pastimes, but I'm afraid I haven't the patience to open you up right now. Still, your thighs are as lovely as the rest of you." Lestrade puts a hand between his legs, where he can feel the head of Mycroft's cock poking through every time he thrusts, and it brushes against his balls. He rarely bothers about getting older but in moments like this, he mourns it, because his cock is desperate to get involved again. A nice long, slow fuck, like this, Mycroft just teasing at him but never penetrating…

But it's not going to be that long anyway, because Mycroft has clearly been waiting for some time, and it's after not many thrusts at all that he tenses, his hand gripping at Lestrade's arm, and Lestrade feels the cock jerk between his thighs. He watches in fascination as one stripe of semen hits Sherlock's leg. Sherlock doesn't even open his eyes.

"Fuck," Lestrade breathes out, when Mycroft relaxes behind him. Neither of the other two would ever describe their feelings quite like that, but he knows he's speaking for all of them.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Mycroft mutters.

" _God_ , yeah." Lestrade wriggles slightly, enjoying the feel of Mycroft's cock slowly softening between his legs. He likes it better when it's in his arse, but this is nice too. "How about you, Sherlock? Friction - good?" It's difficult to form a more coherent sentence, so he decides not to bother. Sherlock will know what he meant, anyway.

"Excellent," Sherlock says, sounding as though he's on the edge of sleep. "Though naturally we'll have to repeat this several times to ensure the results aren't down to chance."

"Fuck you," Lestrade replies without heat, ignoring the irony. "Nobody comes that hard by _chance_. Anyway, ignoring that - you were wrong."

"About what?"

"Your whole argument of oh, I don't like sex, it's boring." Lestrade knows his imitation of Sherlock's accent is terrible, so he ignores the face Sherlock pulls.

"Technically," Mycroft says, "that was never his argument."

"What?" Lestrade turns as much as he can in Mycroft's arms, but he doesn't yet want the cock to slip out from between his legs.

"We lied," Sherlock says, causing him to turn back quickly. He doesn't sound at all remorseful, and isn't that a shock. "I never thought sex was beneath me at all."

"Then why the fuck…"

"If I had simply told you that my brother wanted to have sex with you and that I wanted to direct you, would you have agreed?" Mycroft asks him, sounding so bloody reasonable. "If I hadn't been so sure you'd enjoy it, however, I wouldn't have misled you."

"Lied to me."

"After a fashion."

Lestrade really cannot be arsed to argue, and he knows they know it as well, and if he weren't feeling so bloody good right now, he'd damn them both to hell. "I hate you both," he says, anyway, because he feels like he should.

"Sleep, Gregory," Mycroft says in return, and he can't do anything else but follow the order.

**Author's Note:**

> I adore concrit.


End file.
